


"black widow jr."

by novoaa1



Series: find you again [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Emotionally stunted reader, Gen, Memory Alteration, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), Mind Reading, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Protective Natasha Romanov, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Red Room (Marvel), Super Soldier Serum (Marvel), Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Violence, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, always ready to cut a bitch, ethnically ambiguous reader, love that for her, maybe late teens early twenties, protective Reader, rated it m to be safe but that's just 'cause assassin shits and all that, reader is a lil deadly assassin, reader is fairly young
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “So, just to be clear,” Stark says, turning this way and that to gauge his compatriots’ reactions. “We’re keeping her, right?”The ghost of a grin teases Soldat’s lips. When Stark catches his gaze, he gives a shallow nod.Wanda huffs out a breathless laugh, then collapses back in her seat like all the fight has left her. The exhausted grin on her face is more than answer enough.Natalia snorts, an amused spark in her gaze. “Yes, Tony,” she answers, a knowing grin dimpling her cheeks. “We’re keeping her.”You almost roll your eyes, but immediately think better of it.Americans.Or: You grew up in what is essentially the Red Room 2.0. You’re their greatest success since Natasha defected after the fall of the KGB. Natasha catches wind of this new program and gets you out. From there, she’ll learn that the history between the two of you is a little (read: a lot) more nuanced than she originally thought.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Tony Stark & Reader, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader
Series: find you again [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099409
Comments: 15
Kudos: 190





	"black widow jr."

**Author's Note:**

> _soldat_ is simply how you would say ‘soldier’ in russian. in cyrillic, it is солдат. uhhh i don’t really know where this came from. just kinda had the idea and ran with it. also i think i vaguely remember getting a request a while back that had something to do with red room kid reader & natasha... anyways- 
> 
> reader is written as ethnically ambiguous and fairly young—maybe late teens, early twenties
> 
> definitely feel free to let me know what u think!

In his final moments, Yuri Kovacs begs for his life. You hate it when they beg. No, not hate. You are not allowed to hate. Hate requires an emotional investment, and you are not emotionally invested. You are not emotionally invested in anything.

So, you say this—you _dislike_ it when they beg. It’s annoying, and tiresome. 

You kneel beside him, sever his carotid in one graceful movement. The gash in his neck sprays blood as he dies, damn near stains your skirt. 

He doesn’t beg after that. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all. 

You use the lapel of his uniform to wipe the blood from your knife, stow it beneath your skirt in the holster around your thigh. You don’t pose the body, or pull his slacks back up. You don’t touch the bottle of pharmaceutical “performance enhancers” on the nightstand. 

They’ll know it was you who killed him. They’ll know why. Your mission is to send a message, and them knowing that is part of it. 

You stride over to the vanity, take a look at your reflection. Swollen lips, mussed-up hair, a couple hickies beginning to bruise quite nicely along your throat. You undo one more button on your blouse, ensuring that anyone who so much as glances at you will get an eyeful. It also doesn’t hurt that there’s more hickies beneath your collarbones and the beginnings of a hand-shaped bruise forming over your left breast.

Yes, the “just fucked” look is always a good one for getting out of a place undetected—especially a hotel as nice as this one. No one wants to look for very long, and anyone who does won’t clock you as a potential threat.

You grab your purse, slip out the burner phone they’d given you, and shoot off a text requesting extraction. 

Your handler texts back in seconds with a location, time, and instructions to ditch the phone at your earliest convenience. You damn near roll your eyes at the last part. As if you don’t already know. 

Then, with a final parting glance at your reflection, you turn to leave.

— —

Three weeks later, you’re in bed—one hand cuffed to the frame, a knife stored under your pillow. All the other girls sleep in similar beds around you, their breaths measured and quiet. You know better than to think that that means they’re really sleeping.

A sweet, sharp scent tickles your nostrils. Your eyes snap open in time to see the girl two beds down, Anna, sit up and begin to say something, only to collapse back into bed.

You tentatively sniff the air, and your vision blurs around the edges. _Gas_.

Anna and the others haven’t been getting the weekly serum transfusions like you have, so it would make sense to assume that they’ve all been rendered unconscious. 

People are entering the room now, all dressed in black and packing heat—assault rifles. The radios strapped to their shoulders beep and click, low voices speaking to one another over the channel. American. Almost all of them wear a mask save for one—a woman with red hair. You wonder if she has the serum, too. 

_Focus_ , you tell yourself. 

You hold yourself perfectly still, work the point of your knife into the keyhole of the cuffs, wiggle and twist the blade until you hear a telltale _click!_

Fuck, your head is starting to ache. 

You ease open the cuff a couple notches until you can slide your hand free, already twisting to get out of bed—

A weight settles atop your waist, slamming you back down onto the thin mattress. Two hands grab yours, pinning you down by the wrists hard enough to make the bed frame creak. Your night vision isn’t perfect (though it’s certainly improved since you started the transfusions), but you can just make out a lithe, feminine figure on top of you. No gas mask. 

The grip of her thighs around your waist is like iron, and her expression is solemn as she leans forward and orders you not to move. 

“Who are you?” you ask in perfect English. No fear in your voice, no drowsiness—no weakness. There’s bootsteps all around, the sound of handcuffs being broken. Whoever these Americans are, they’re _freeing_ you. 

“ _Black Widow_ ,” the woman answers. Her Russian is flawless—a native speaker. 

That doesn’t mean you believe her. You make sure your Russian accent is damn near perfect when you say, “ _You’re lying. Black Widow is dead_.” That’s what Madame told you, anyhow. 

The woman chuckles, low and throaty. “ _Not quite_.”

Then she releases one of your arms, there’s a flash of bright blue around her wrist. The last thing you feel is a stinging pain in your neck before it all goes dark. 

— —

You track the redheaded woman as she enters the interrogation cell. She’s wearing a tactical suit that does nothing to hide her curves, combat boots, and little else. She holds a thin file in her hands. At first glance, she appears unarmed, but you know better than to trust that. 

You have to admit, she does bear a striking resemblance to the Widow. 

“Hello,” she says in a low voice. Her American accent is impeccable, and her eyes are a startling shade of green. “I’m Natasha.” You watch her intently as she sits down, places the file on the table in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“Isabella,” you say. 

Her lips quirk into the beginnings of a smirk. “You’re a good liar, Y/N,” she compliments. 

You say nothing, though it irks you that she knows your name. 

“We grew up in very similar places,” she says, her words tinged with something you can’t quite place. “They cuffed me to the bed at night, had me kill the other girls in the program, made me dance until I bled through my shoes.” She piques your attention with those details, even if you don’t let on. “I survived because I was marble.”

Now, _that_ gives you pause. You eye her a little more carefully, all the while keeping your features a mask of indifference. 

“And your place in this world?” you ask after a moment. It’s a test. 

“I have no place in this world,” she says. The words roll off her tongue like they’re practiced, like she’s said them a million times before. 

“What about love?” you ask. 

“Love is for children,” she answers in that same practiced intonation, something like real pain flaring in her gaze. 

Understanding hits you like a sucker punch to the gut, sucking all the air from your lungs in one fell swoop. 

Test passed.

“You are Natalia… Black Widow.”

“I used to be.” If she recognizes you, she’s doing a damn good job of hiding it.

“Madame told me you died.”

Natalia’s gaze hardens. “I killed Madame.”

“Perhaps you did.” You shrug. “The Madame who taught me had brown eyes and a scar on her upper lip.”

Realization flits across Natalia’s features. “Mine had blonde hair and blue eyes.” 

“Did she beg for her life when you killed her?”

“No.” There’s something like droll amusement in her tone when she adds, “Stubborn woman.”

“At least she didn’t die a hypocrite,” you offer. It’s all you can think to say. 

Natalia nods. “How old are you?”

“Does that matter?”

“You don’t know, do you?” The knowing look in her eye is infuriating. 

“Do _you_ know how old you are?” you ask her. 

“No,” she admits. 

“Does that bother you?”

“Every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.”

“You’ve grown softer since you fled,” you observe. It isn’t a question. 

“Defected,” Natalia corrects. “And yes. I suppose I have.”

You raise a brow. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“No one’s trying to shank me at night, don’t have to cuff myself to the bed anymore…” Natalia trails off, leaning back in her seat. “It’s not so bad.”

“What about your place in this world?”

Her mild expression doesn’t falter. “What about it?”

“We don’t have one. We _can’t_ have one,” you say. You’re quickly growing frustrated with this back-and-forth. It— _she_ —is far too familiar for your comforts. “How come you do?”

Natalia tilts her head to one side, regards you carefully. “Don’t believe everything Madame told you,” she says finally. “A place in the world isn’t something you just have or don’t have. It’s something you work for, day by day.”

You fall silent, as if turning it over in your head. You’re not really. You just think she might be delusional. “That’s what you do?”

“Something like that.” She nods, wearing the ghost of a smirk like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. It vexes you. “I’ll never save enough people to get the red out of my ledger. Doesn’t mean I stop trying.”

Now, _that_ makes you stifle a scoff. “When did you become an optimist?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a pragmatist.”

“A lovely sentiment.” You lean back, fiddle with the cuffs around your wrists. “Did S.H.I.E.L.D. tell you to say that?”

“We’re not at S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Oh?”

“We’re at Avengers Tower, New York City.”

She’s quite the accomplished liar, even still. You’re mildly impressed. “You wouldn’t just tell me that.”

She shrugs. “I just did.”

You eye her for a long moment. _Maybe they re-programmed her_. “Who is your handler? Tony Stark?”

Her lips twitch at the insinuation, like she’s amused. “I don’t have a handler.”

“All assets have a handler.”

Natalia shrugs. “I’m not an asset.”

“Then what are you?”

You’re almost expecting her to say ‘a hero,’ so it’s a pleasant surprise when she answers, “A pragmatist.”

You almost smile. Almost. “ _Did they send you to the chair_ ?” you ask in just barely coherent Russian, trusting that it’ll fool whichever AI is recording you for later translation. 

Natalia smiles, like she knows what you’re doing. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “ _They do not meddle with my mind, little one. They will not meddle with yours, either_.” Her Russian is impeccable as always, every syllable enunciated flawlessly like she doesn’t care who hears. It irks you. 

“ _How can you possibly know for sure_ ?” You switch into Hungarian, this time—butchered but ultimately understandable to someone who knows the language well enough. Natalia does. Her training wouldn’t allow for anything less, no matter how long it’s been. 

“ _I don’t have holes in my memory like before_.” As expected, her Hungarian is perfect—just like her Russian. 

You go for French, next. You know Natalia will answer in kind. “ _Perhaps they’ve simply gotten better at it_.”

“ _When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, I pursued a degree in Neuroscience. I’d already done two years under a cover at Carnegie Mellon, so it didn’t take as long as it might’ve. Graduated, then did some medical school after that. Got my doctorate_.”

“ _Congratulations_.” Spanish. 

“ _It means I can read my brain scans, check for any abnormalities_.”

You almost laugh at that. Almost. “ _You trust the doctors who scan your brain_ ?” Spanish, still. You’ve always loved the language. 

“ _Not in the slightest_ ,” Natalia answers in kind. Her accent is, as expected, without error. “ _I inspect the MRI machine myself beforehand. James supervises the scan. No doctors involved_.”

“ _James_ ?” you repeat, feigning unfamiliarity. 

Natalia’s smile widens, and you get the distinct impression that she _wanted_ you to ask about him. “ _Have you heard of the Winter Soldier_ ?”

“ _He trained you_ ,” you recall. “ _I met him. His Russian was horrible_.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either.

Natalia raises her brows. “ _You must have been quite young at the time_.” 

“ _I don’t remember_ ,” you say with a shrug. “ _He had blue eyes. He hated the state of New Jersey, but he couldn’t remember why_.”

Real interest sparks in Natalia’s eyes. “ _He’s here, now. Would you like to see him_ ?” She’s switched over to French again, likely expecting you to follow suit. 

You do. “ _No_ ,” you bite out, a little sharper than you intended. Understanding flares alongside latent curiosity in Natalia’s gaze. _Dammit_. 

“ _So, your James oversees the brain scans_ ,” you say, circling back to earlier. It’s a deflection—a blatant one, at that. The chances that she’ll call you on it are something like 50-50, by your estimates. “ _And you inspect them_.”

Natalia nods slowly. “ _Yes_ ,” she says, slipping into Russian once more. Her gaze seems to bore straight through you. “ _He left far more recently than I did, but he’s recovered remarkably well. No one else gets near the machine while I’m being scanned, much less the scans themselves_.”

“ _If they wiped you, it would show on the scans_ ,” you venture. 

She nods. “ _Yes. It would be blatant, too—scarring, swelling, build-up of necrotic tissue_.”

“ _There’s already a good amount of all that to begin with, I’d imagine_ ,” you comment. 

“ _Point_ ,” Natalia concedes. “ _The brain is… complicated beyond comprehension, and no two brains are the same. But if you know what to look for, and you frequently track an individual’s brain development through a series of intensive scans as I’ve been doing, you can isolate certain patterns. Scarring, necrotic tissue, any swelling with no apparent cause_.”

“ _That sounds… tedious_.”

“ _It is_ ,” Natalia agrees in Chinese. Her accent’s a little off, but it’s passable—certainly more passable than yours. “ _How’s your Chinese_ ?”

“ _My accent could use some work_ ,” you admit placidly. Your tones are a little flat. “ _Mistress T called it_ ‘atrocious.’”

Natalia smirks. “ _It’s not so bad_.” She waves a hand dismissively through the air. “ _Did Mistress T train you_ ?”

“ _Sometimes_.” You run your tongue along the roof of your mouth, contemplating. “ _So, your brain is healing_ ?” you ask after a moment.

Natalia nods even as you search for a hint of dishonesty in her measured gaze. You don’t find it. “ _Ever since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D._ ” Her gaze narrows on yours. “ _I’m surprised your Madame didn’t tell you about that_.”

“ _She didn’t have to. I saw it mentioned on the news in Zagreb_ ,” you say. It’s not a lie. 

You leave out the part where you were _there_ for it (some of it, anyhow)—and the part where you know that S.H.I.E.L.D. is by no means gone, simply rebuilding itself in the shadows. 

“ _Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over them_ ,” you say, slipping into Russian. Recognition flares in Natalia’s eyes, but you continue, the words tumbling off your lips like a mantra. It’s as if… as if you _have_ to say them. “ _I’m Russian_.”

Thankfully, Natalia doesn’t comment on it. “ _You don’t look Russian_ ,” she says instead, taking the language shift in stride. 

“ _The men never complained_ ,” you dismiss with an arched brow. It’s not a brag—just fact. “ _Madame always liked that I was_ ‘ethnically ambiguous.’”

You’re speaking in Spanish, again. A subconscious impulse? Possibly. A bid for comfort? Likely. Utterly transparent to someone of Natalia’s caliber? Undoubtedly. 

_Fuck_. 

“ _Makes sense_ ,” Natalia says, following your lead. She doesn’t comment on the switch, nor does she give any outwards indication to show she marked it. You’d be a fool to think she didn’t. “ _What’s more invisible than a little girl_ ?”

Your lips twitch, threatening a smile. “ _A little girl who isn’t white_.” 

Not only that, but many men even seemed to like you more for your darker complexion and non-European features. Called you “exotic,” compared you to flowers and different ethnic foods. _Morons_. 

“ _Do you know where you were born_ ?”

“ _No_ ,” you say in a startling show of plainness. If Natalia’s at all taken aback, she does well to hide it. “ _Do you_ ?”

“ _No_.”

“ _I thought you said your brain was healing_.”

“ _It is_ ,” she agrees mildly. “ _It’s… a process. I get pieces now and then_.”

“ _That must be frustrating for you_.”

“ _It is_.”

You fall into silence, then. Not comfortable by any means, but not _un_ comfortable, either. It’s… peculiar.

Eventually, you ask, “Why am I here?” English, this time. This part is not a secret to Tony Stark and his AIs. 

“I caught wind of a newly-fledged program similar to that of the Red Room by way of some old contacts in Russia.” Natasha pauses, looking contemplative. “I promised to burn the Red Room to the ground—all of it. I thought I had.”

“You did. The Black Room rose years after the Red Room’s fall… Birthed from the ashes of what once was.”

“That’s why they call it the Black Room?” Natalia guesses. 

You nod. 

“Not terribly original,” she comments, a hint of dry amusement in her tone. 

A slight smile curves your lips. “They were very maudlin about it.”

Natalia snorts—an inelegant sound. You like it. “Either way, I’ve always made it a point to keep an ear out for hints of the program’s rebirth or anything like it,” she explains. “Particularly in Russia.”

“How’d you find them?”

“I didn’t. I found _you_.”

Something tightens in your gut even as you force your expression to remain placid. “What?”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself in years past—the Angel of Death.” 

You don’t flinch at the moniker, even though you want to. “It’s a bit dramatic for my tastes,” you say instead, making a conscious effort to keep your tone even.

“You’ve been going off-book over the past year.” She slides the file over the tabletop to you without opening it. It’s upside-down, but you can easily make out the title ‘Angel of Death’ stamped out in black print beneath the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia—your file. You don’t make a move to touch it. “Unless the Black Room decided to grow a conscience all of a sudden, and I highly doubt that that’s the case.”

“I do not go ‘off-book,’” you counter plainly—a bold-faced lie. “I complete the mission objectives as they are given to me.”

“Along with some other projects on the side—crossing off human traffickers, rapists, pedophiles. Walking kids home at night, reuniting families across international borders.” Natalia’s expression seems caught somewhere between impressed and curious.

You shrug. “If I have extra time, I find miscellaneous tasks to keep me busy until I’m due to return. So long as the mission is complete, my handlers are happy. I do not see the problem.”

“You don’t include any of these _side projects_ in your mission reports, do you?” Even as she asks, you get the distinct feeling that she already knows the answer.

“They are not relevant to the mission. Therefore, they have no place in the report.”

“But sometimes, they are.”

“Are what?”

“Relevant to the mission.” You dislike the way Natalia’s looking at you… like you’re a puzzle, and she’s intent on making the pieces fit. 

“I’m afraid you lost me there.”

“2004. You were sent to kill Anton Gusarov, an outspoken Russian defector who fled after the fall of the KGB. He’d been in hiding in America ever since.”

“I shot him. Twice.”

“But not his family.”

Your finger twitches. You’re glad your hands are under the table, out of sight. “They were Canadian. Innocent of Gusarov’s crimes.”

“The mission parameters didn’t reflect that,” Natalia points out. “You were ordered to eliminate the entire family and any witnesses, not only Gusarov. Instead, you helped his wife and daughters create new identities. Drove them across the border, helped them disappear.”

“It was a judgement call. I’m authorized to make those.”

“A judgement call that directly contradicted the mission parameters. You also missed extraction.”

“That’s not all that uncommon for me.” It’s not a lie. You seldom required extraction. Whenever your handler (usually a newer one) insisted upon it, you’d duck it and show up back at HQ well before they returned empty-handed, just to spite them.

“I know. But you were late returning to Russia. That _is_ uncommon for you.” 

You eye her, letting a tinge of annoyance seep into your gaze. “You took my files from Iskitim?” You don’t know how else she’d know all these details. 

She nods, lips twitching into a smirk. “Tony was very frustrated to note that none of them were computerized. Called it ‘barbaric,’ I believe.”

“You should have burned them,” you say. 

“Aw.” Natalia pouts, feigning disillusionment. “But then we wouldn’t be here bonding like we are now.”

You level her with a dead-eyed stare, irked by her levity. “If you’re going to kill me, Miss Romanova, I’d much prefer you do it sooner rather than later.”

Natalia doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t kill kids,” she says.

“I am not a child,” you tell her. “I haven’t been one for a very long time.”

“You mean, you’ve never been one because you never had the chance,” Natalia corrects. 

“What is the point of all this?” you ask, allowing your brow to furrow with annoyance. “If you’re not going to kill me, then why am I here?”

“I want to help you.” The earnestness in her gaze is painful to look at. 

“I don’t need help.”

“That’s what I used to think, too.”

You study her for a long moment before deciding to show your hand—part of it, at least. “And then you met the archer.”

If she’s at all taken aback by your blunt assertion, she does well to hide it. “Yes. He took me under his wing, so to speak. Gave me a second chance.”

“He was S.H.I.E.L.D.,” you say.

She nods. “He was.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. was HYDRA.”

“HYDRA _infiltrated_ S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Natalia corrects. 

“Regardless, that compromised him,” you point out. “It compromised _you_.”

“True,” Natalia acknowledges. “I’m compromised now. That hasn’t changed.”

You stare at her for a moment, disbelief and consternation warring violently in your chest. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I don’t believe you’ll exploit me for it.”

“You’re insane.” Or lying. Only time would tell. 

“Well, either that, or I’m lying,” she agrees, a knowing glint in her eye. Your skin prickles with annoyance. “But I think you know very well that I’m not.”

You just stare. 

“How long have you been keeping tabs on me?”

You knew she’d figure it out eventually.

You eye her for a long moment. _What the hell_. “2009 is my earliest recollection.” 

“Odessa.” A vague note of surprise in her tone. 

“Soldat shot you. I damn near killed him for it.” A shiver works its way down your spine as a sliver of the memory comes back to you. The brains of Natalia’s engineer spattered across the dust, blood blossoming from her hip, a flash of blinding light as the sun caught Soldat’s metal arm across the way. 

Thankfully, Natalia doesn’t ask that you remembered James, nor about your connection to him. “What stopped you?” she questions instead. 

“My programming,” you answer. “And the fact that he didn’t kill you.”

“It would’ve mattered if he had?” Natalia asks, tilting her head and appraising you with an unreadable look. 

You shrug, like it’s of little consequence to you. Truthfully, it grates on you more than you’d like to admit. “It certainly felt that way at the time.”

“Did we ever meet before I defected?”

_Now_ she’s asking the right questions. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“On more than one occasion, yes.”

“I trained you.” It isn’t a question. 

“On and off.”

“You must’ve been so young.”

“You didn’t want to do it, at first.” That’s putting it lightly. “Madame B was very displeased.” Karpov got involved, too. It wasn’t pretty. 

“They sent me to the chair.” The wary look in Natalia’s eye tells you it’s an assumption, and not a memory. 

“When you came back, your previous reservations had fled.” She _hated_ you, truth be told. It reflected in everything she did, the way she pushed you well past your limits long after she’d broken you in a way even Madame never could. She doesn’t need to know that. 

A flicker of something bitter in Natalia’s gaze—like anger, followed by remorse hot on its heels. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

You shrug. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

You give another shrug. Telling her the extent of it would only cause her pain. 

Natalia seems to sense you won’t budge, so she switches tactics. “2011. My assignment to monitor Tony Stark. You were there.”

“Briefly.” At Natalia’s raised brows, you add, “I was in the neighborhood.”

Natalia fixes you with a droll look. “How fortunate.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s not for lack of wanting. “How long will I have to be here?”

“Why?” Natalia asks. “So you can get back to tracking me from afar?”

You narrow your gaze upon her. “I’m paying off a debt.”

“But you aren’t indebted to me. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

“You sound awfully certain of that.”

“Killing James in Odessa would’ve warranted an immediate death sentence.”

“Perhaps,” you concede. She isn’t wrong. More likely, they’d have sent you to the chair and wiped you until you could only remember to aim, shoot, kill. 

“And yet, you might’ve done it. To avenge _me_.”

“I didn’t.” 

Natalia rises to her feet, procures a pair of handcuff keys. “You protected me,” she says with a note of finality, circling the table to approach you. You track her with careful eyes. “Now it’s my turn to do the same.” 

— —

She leads you from interrogation out into a spacious penthouse. Turns out, Natalia didn’t lie about where you were (which just serves to throw you off even more). 

Floor-to-ceiling windows surround you on every side, providing a view of New York City that might’ve been breathtaking if it didn’t make for such atrocious sightlines. If Tony Stark is even a fraction as smart as you know him to be, every pane of glass is bulletproof polycarbonate. 

You still aren’t feeling great about the sightlines, though—too much exposure. Not all threats come in the form of bullets.

The handcuffs are a thing of the past, removed in interrogation and left back in the cell as nothing more than an afterthought. You debate snapping Natalia’s neck at least five times as she leads you out to an extravagant lounge space, where two men and one young woman sit in wait. 

Tony Stark, the Iron Man, slouches comfortably in the corner of one sofa wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, though the inverted triangle aglow on his chest ensures he isn’t by any means unarmed. 

Designation: Unclear. Threat Assessment: High. 

A pretty-faced young woman about your age sits adjacent to him in an armchair, wearing a flowing black babydoll dress and a vaguely familiar-looking red leather jacket, eyeing you with palpable curiosity. Wanda Maximoff—the Scarlet Witch. 

You recognize her, you realize with a jolt. Not just from shared intel and the news… but from years previous. You remember… a mission, years ago. Sokovia… Von Strucker… HYDRA—bits and pieces, but by no means the whole picture. Damn your sketchy memory. 

Designation: Unclear. Threat Assessment: Deadly. 

It’s the third of their little group who catches your attention, however, making you freeze in place and brace for a fight. 

Soldat sits in an armchair opposite the Scarlet Witch, feet a shoulder’s width apart, posture ramrod straight. He’s wearing boots, joggers, and a windbreaker jacket that hides the metal of his arm, but not his hand. 

Designation: Unclear. Enemy (?). Threat Assessment: Deadly. 

His expression is like stone as he takes you in—unreadable, cold. No hint of recognition in his flinty blue-eyed gaze. 

“Y/N,” Natalia murmurs, already moving herself to stand between the pair of you as Soldat rises to his feet. 

The air around you feels thick, charged with hostility. You hardly mind being the cause of it.

“You shot Natalia. Twice.”

Something flickers through Soldat’s gaze. All at once, the tension seems to bleed from his stance. “Yes,” he agrees, not flinching away from it, but not seeming at all pleased with it either. 

“I almost killed you for that,” you inform him. “Both times.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Odessa,” he says slowly. _And D.C._ , you add silently. So he remembers, then. “The little sniper.”

Your lips twitch. “To be fair, you’re a rather large man to begin with.” You hear Natalia stifle a snort. “You make most people look small in comparison.”

He just stares, dumbfounded. “You were a kid,” he says in a rough voice, sounding pained… almost as if he’s hurting _for_ you. It’s irksome. “You still are.”

“I didn’t care then, and I don’t now,” you tell him honestly, though you’re careful to keep any hint of reproach from your measured tone. Anger is a tool, nothing more. “You shot her. For that, I wanted to kill you myself.”

Soldat seems to gather himself, then—enough to give you a sharp nod, something like resolve hardening in his gaze. “I would not have faulted you if you had.” You can’t find a trace of insincerity in him as he says it.

“You were under orders,” you say. You don’t know why you’re giving him an out. In your mind, he’s far from absolved. Perhaps some part of you aligns yourself with him more than you’d like to admit. “Failure to complete the mission would’ve been unacceptable.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Tony Stark interjects brashly, his gaze darting from you to Soldat and back again. 

Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long without injecting himself into the conversation. 

His obnoxious, egomaniacal reputation precedes him. 

“So, are you saying you’re cool with the Manchurian Candidate now, or… ? Because if the two of you are about to throw down right now, I’d much rather it didn’t happen here. I _just_ got this place renovated.”

Soldat rolls his eyes, collapses back into his seat. “I’m not fighting a kid,” he snaps, a hint of Brooklyn trickling into his testy inflection. _James_. 

You both ignore him. 

_‘Manchurian Candidate.’_ “Richard Condon,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. “I will not fight Soldat. I know better. So long as he no longer proves an active threat to Natalia, I see no need to revisit it.” 

Soldat gives you a sharp nod that you return after a beat of hesitance. 

He appears genuine, but the fact remains that you’d be a fool to take him at his word. You make a mental note to examine him and his history with a fine-tooth comb later on—as soon as the opportunity presents itself, preferably.

Then, you turn back to Stark. “Though, perhaps I should be asking _you_ about settling a score with Soldat.” You bite your tongue before you can say more. You imagine that Siberia is still an open wound for them. 

Stark visibly flinches. He really needs to work on his tells. “Point,” he concedes. “It’s like you said: He was under orders. Programming. Failure would’ve been unacceptable.”

Soldat visibly tenses in your periphery, and the look he shoots Stark is borderline incredulous. Apparently, they haven’t talked this part out—not that you can blame them. 

“They’d have eliminated him from the program,” you agree, eyeing Stark carefully. “You forgive him?”

Stark shrugs, glancing from you to Natalia to Soldat and back again. There’s too much honesty in his voice when he says, “I’m working on it.” It grates on your nerves like salt in an open wound. 

“And you?” you ask finally, turning to the Sokovian witch. You read the reports on her. Neuroelectric interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation. You’ve seen her before, too, though your memory of it is a bit hazy. “I imagine you’re here to judge my ill intent.”

Her blue-green eyes shine with guilt even as she manages a shaky half-smile. She really needs to work on her tells, too. “You have none,” she says in a conspicuously heavy Sokovian accent, tone colored with surprise. 

“This surprises you,” you observe. 

A pinkish flush spreads across her cheeks. It’s… cute, you suppose. You dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. Your programming does not allow for such frivolous sentiments. “You care about Natasha.”

Natalia’s gaze seems to burn through you, but you will yourself not to falter as you answer, “I suppose.” The truth tastes like ash on your tongue. 

“Caring isn’t a bad thing,” Natalia offers up quietly from beside you. “Neither is admitting it.”

“You’ve been away for a very long time,” you tell her without tearing your gaze from Wanda Maximoff’s. The way she stares at you is almost childlike—naive and full of wonder. You watch for the moment she sees something horrible in your mind, the moment she makes the conscious decision to fear you as she rightfully should. “They should have re-programmed me the moment I first had Soldat’s head in the crosshairs.”

“Yeah, but then we wouldn’t have had that _adorable_ civil war with all the Super Friends going at it up in Leipzig,” Stark pipes up, his tone ripe with sardonic humor. “So, really, you did us a favor there.”

You turn from Wanda— _the witch_ , you correct yourself, needing the illusion of distance—to look at him, searching for a hint of genuine bitterness in his demeanor. You find it a second later. 

“Your wit is your shield, and yet, there’s truth in it, too,” you observe. “You’re quite serious about giving Soldat a second chance.” 

Stark shrugs it off, but the stiffness in his posture betrays the toll it’s taking to even discuss this so openly. “Who doesn’t love a good character redemption arc?” 

It’s a deflection (and hardly a subtle one), but you let him have it.

“Is that how you view my situation?” you ask, genuine curiosity crawling under your skin. 

“You’re a kid,” he counters immediately, sounding vaguely put out. “It’s different.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “I imagine that once you kill enough people, you lose your right to the innocence that title implies.”

The room is silent for a beat. Then two. 

Until finally, “Damn, Red,” Stark remarks, flashing Natalia a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kid’s even more stubborn than you are.”

Natalia and Stark devolve into a familiar banter, then, and you consciously tune out of it. You trust your training to internalize anything of importance as they quibble like schoolchildren. 

They have an interesting dynamic, Stark and Natalia. You make a note to examine it later, at length. 

You can see Wand—the witch—still appraising you curiously out the corner of your eye, pupils flickering with lurid crimson as she sifts through your thoughts. You can feel her presence in your brain—probing tendrils buzzing through your fragmented memories like fleas, little more than a nuisance even as the mere sensation of it sets off every alarm bell in your head without nuance. 

You wonder what she’s looking for.

After another minute or so of friendly ribbing between Natalia and Stark (supplemented occasionally by caustic commentary from Soldat), you decide to simply ask. 

“What are you looking for?” The other three promptly fall silent as you study the Maximoff girl, intent on unearthing her core rationale. The pinkish blush returns to her pale cheeks full-force, and you can’t help the way her shy, rueful grin seems to tug at your heartstrings. “It might be quicker for you to just ask me. After all, I imagine you’d be able to tell my lies from the truth, no matter how well I tell them.”

Wanda Maximoff nods, seeming by all accounts properly chastised. You feel a hint of regret at that. It was not your intent to make her contrite. 

“In your head, I… I saw you in Sokovia. Before Ultron.” Her tone is awed—almost reverent, like she can’t quite believe it. “You were there before the Avengers came to take the Scepter.”

“Yes. I was sent to eliminate two enhanced threats—a brother and a sister.” At the mention of her departed twin, pain flits across Wanda Maximoff’s features, but she does not look away from you. Her eyes are a curious blend of blue and green, you note. They’re quite pretty. 

“You sabotaged your own mission,” Natalia says. Her words are saturated with bewilderment. You can’t help but feeling a morbid sense of accomplishment at having caught her by surprise. 

“I _failed_ my mission,” you correct her. 

“Intentionally,” she fires back. 

You don’t deny that. It wouldn’t get you very far—not under Natalia’s scrutiny and certainly not considering the witch’s knack for extrasensory perception. “They were kids.”

“Like you,” Tony interjects.

You ignore him. “It wasn’t a terrible stretch to report that they’d managed to evade me. They were unknown variables—extraordinarily powerful yet undisciplined in managing their own abilities.” 

You meet the witch’s eye for a moment, before turning your gaze upon Soldat. Oddly enough, the calm radiating off of him provides a necessary sort of anchor for the raw vulnerability splitting you open… even if you still don’t much like him. 

“You don’t send the Angel of Death to fail,” Natalia points out. Again, you don’t flinch at the title, even if you kind of want to. 

“Don’t call her that,” Wanda— _the witch_ —interjects sharply, as if sensing your unease. 

All heads in the room turn to stare at her—including yours. 

“It’s fine,” you say after a beat, disliking the way she tenses uncomfortably beneath their inspection. 

Natalia turns her gaze back to you, searching your features with renewed interest. “You were punished for your failure.” 

You shrug. “Somewhat.” _Understatement of the century_. The shards of memory drag like claws down the skin of your back, tearing open old wounds until it’s all you can do to remain outwardly neutral without screaming. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“You spared the lives of two strangers at the risk of outing yourself as a dissenter,” Natalia says. “I’m surprised they didn’t kill you.”

“Like I said, they were kids,” you repeat, disliking the way everyone’s looking at you. “And I was the biggest success in the program since you. To kill me for a single failure would have been extreme.”

“Hindsight is 20-20, but I doubt you’d have known that in the moment.” Realization dawns in Natalia’s eyes as she stares you down, and your skin prickles with discomfort. “You didn’t care if they killed you for your failure.”

Someone inhales sharply—Wanda. 

Pity flares in Stark’s gaze. 

Soldat just stares. 

You clench your jaw _hard_ until it hurts, but manage your best indifferent shrug. You don’t doubt that Natalia sees right through it. Wanda, too. 

“Again, I fail to see the relevance here.”

“So, just to be clear,” Stark says, turning this way and that to gauge his compatriots’ reactions. “We’re keeping her, right?”

The ghost of a grin teases Soldat’s lips. When Stark catches his gaze, he gives a shallow nod. 

Wanda huffs out a breathless laugh, then collapses back in her seat like all the fight has left her. The exhausted grin on her face is more than answer enough. 

Natalia snorts, an amused spark in her gaze. “Yes, Tony,” she answers, a knowing grin dimpling her cheeks. “We’re keeping her.” 

You almost roll your eyes, but immediately think better of it. _Americans_. 

— —

“When you said you were keeping me, I didn’t think you meant it in the literal sense,” you say. 

You’re standing between Stark and Natalia on one of the many live-in floors of Avengers Tower. This one is Natalia’s, evidently. 

It’s somewhat sparsely decorated (predictably), though there are little things here and there to suggest inhabitation: running shoes by the door, a laptop on the kitchen isle, a small cluster of silver rings sitting on the coffee table.

“What, you don’t like it?” Stark asks, then makes a show of taking a quick look around. _Dramatic_. “Yeah, I agree. Red needs to decorate more.”

“ _Smartass_ ,” Natasha murmurs in Russian. 

You feel the beginnings of a smile tug at your lips even as you steel yourself for what you’re about to say next. “You can’t let me stay here.” 

Like ripping off a Band-Aid. 

“Just for that, now you’re _definitely_ staying here,” Stark counters, shoving his hands into his pockets and fixing you with a deadpan look. “I have kind of a thing about people telling me what I can and can’t do. I find it… stifling.”

You almost roll your eyes, but manage to curb the impulse at the last second. “I should be in prison, not here.”

“Great, then I’ll come with,” Natalia offers, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Do you think they’d let us be cellmates?” She directs the latter query towards Stark, who shrugs. 

“I could pull some strings,” he says easily, flashing her an indulgent look over your head.

“You always do.” Natalia winks. 

“I am not an American citizen,” you remind them. 

“We’re already working on getting you a Green Card. It’ll be here in…” Stark trails off, checking his non-existent watch. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., how’s the Green Card for Black Widow Jr. coming along?”

This time, you don’t hesitate to roll your eyes at the nickname even as some distant part you (—a ghost of the girl you used to be—) can’t help but preen at the comparison. 

“Quite well, Boss,” comes the AI’s gentle voice from overhead, a distinct Irish lilt to her intonation. “A representative from USCIS currently has me on hold—one Jefferson Youso—”

Stark leans over a bit, informs you, “He was a big fan of Dad’s” in an obnoxious stage-whisper. 

“—and with his approval, he’s more than willing to expedite the process such that you’ll be receiving the necessary documentation in two weeks’ time,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. finishes coolly. 

Your jaw would be on the floor right now if not for your training. Getting a Green Card in America could take _years_ , from what you’d heard—not to mention, the process itself was a massive pain in the ass. 

Natalia slants you a look, like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. “It pays to befriend a billionaire.”

“Mr. Stark, I—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” he stops you, wagging a finger near your face. You tamp down on the knee-jerk impulse to break it. “Tony.”

“I will not call you ‘Tony.’”

“All my friends do.”

“We are not friends; that is what I am trying to tell you.” You make quick work of compartmentalizing your mounting frustration, keeping your tone steady but emphatic as you try to get through to him. “You can’t trust me.”

“God!” Stark exclaims, leveling Natalia with an aggrieved look. “‘Stubborn’ doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it, huh?” He turns back to you, a disapproving frown on his clean-shaven features. “Jesus, kid. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Boss, you’ve got Miss Potts on the line,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. interjects. You could swear you detect a bit of smugness in her cool tone. 

“Aaand that’s my cue!” Stark announces, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he turns on his heel and makes his way back to the elevator. “Put her through to the penthouse, babygirl. I’m headed up there now.”

“Of course, Boss.”

He catches your eye as the elevator doors are closing, gives you a wave and a “Have fun, kids!” before they shut completely, obscuring him from view.

“ _Asshole_ ,” you grumble in Spanish once Stark is out of sight. 

“He grows on you,” Natalia says with a smirk, heading to the lounge space and (likely) expecting you to follow. 

You don’t. “I don’t belong here, Natalia.”

She flops down on one of the sofas, fixes you with a meaningful look and gestures for you to join her. “Sit.” At your stony expression, she heaves a sigh and adds, “Please.”

You do. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., enter Privacy Mode,” she calls out, intelligent green eyes tracking you as you settle into place, cross-legged atop the cushions. “No one listening in. And lock the recording of this to my voiceprint only, please.”

“Of course, Natasha.”

“You and Tony Stark’s AI are… friends,” you observe after a moment of tense quiet.

“I enjoy speaking with F.R.I.D.A.Y., engaging her in a debate now and again. I also tweak her code from time to time.” There’s an underlying message there—not particularly subtle, but then you suppose it doesn’t have to be.

“So we are secure,” you sum up.

“Yes,” she confirms with a nod.

That relaxes your vigilance—somewhat. “Where are the others?”

“Debriefing, same as you.”

“But Tony Stark isn’t letting them stay in his Tower.”

“No,” Natalia agrees. “He’s not.” She eyes you for a long moment, then adds, “But they also haven’t made it a point to continually look after me and other members of this team at a great personal risk to their own livelihood.”

At that, you fall silent.

“I’d also wager that you were the only one of them I ever trained, even if only for a short time.”

She’s not wrong about that—not that that makes it any better.

You _really_ don’t want to talk about this anymore. 

You focus on your breathing—in, out. Steady. Unbroken. 

You eye the silver rings on the table. Some are carved; some are plain. One in particular catches your eye—a thin silver band inlaid with a polished black stone in the shape of an oval. Onyx, if you had to guess. It’s pretty. 

“Are these yours?” you ask eventually. 

“Nope.” Natalia shakes her head. “Wanda’s. She sleeps over sometimes.”

You look up to find her already watching you, an unreadable expression on her face. “You trust her?” you ask. 

Natalia shrugs. “Getting there.” She glances down at the rings, then back at you. “She seemed quite taken with you.”

You don’t blush, but it’s a close thing. “She looked inside my mind… I’m sure it’s a mess.” You lean back, fold your hands neatly in your lap and let a familiar sense of control seep into your limbs. “I’d be fascinated, too—albeit in a morbid sort of way.”

“You wanted her to see something she didn’t like,” Natalia guesses. “Something that scared her.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t enjoy playing the monster.” _Being_ the monster, really, but you don’t correct yourself. You have a feeling that Natalia would take issue with it. “But it’s the role I’ve been given… more importantly, it’s the role I chose. It’s better Wanda Maximoff sees that sooner rather than later. Stark, too.”

You don’t know what you’re expecting Natalia to say in response to that, but you’ll admit you’re a little surprised when you hear her chuckle. 

“God, you sound just like me,” she says, shaking her head. “Now I can see why Clint was always so frustrated.”

“You’re all insane. I’m trying to _warn_ you.” You encircle your wrist with the pointer finger and thumb of your other hand, marking your pulse as your thoughts race. “The raid on the Black Room, the way you found me.... It must have occurred to you that that could’ve been a set-up.”

Natalia nods. “It did.”

“Which would mean that they planned for me to be here. Programmed me with their own directives, plotted for me to lie in wait until your guard is down and strike.” Frustration mounts in your chest, your skin prickling with unease. “And now you invite me to _stay_ with you?”

At her blank look, something snaps in your chest, and your conditioning promptly goes flying out the nearest window. 

All at once, you figure it’s high time you put your cards on the fucking table. “I protect you. That’s how this works. You’re…” You trail off, clenching your jaw. “You’re one of the only things I remember when they wipe me. I don’t know why, but I know that that’s important. That… That _you’re_ important. So I need you safe until I figure it out—and if I never do, that’s okay, too. But I _need_ you to be safe. Okay? That’s… That’s it. That’s all that matters.”

Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate yourself for it, hate yourself for unloading all that on her in the first place; and yet, at the same time, you feel lighter, somehow. Horribly exposed, raw and vulnerable and _weak_ in every way like a fucking child… but lighter, all the same. _Better_. 

When you finally dare to glance up, Natalia’s lips are parted in shock, her pretty green eyes glossy—shiny with unshed tears. 

You immediately look away. 

You can’t stand the sight of her vulnerability, her grief, the way it tears open your chest and seems to rip the beating heart from your very core. _Fuck_.

The room falls into silence, then, as Natalia gathers herself and you blink back the telltale burn of unshed tears gathering in your eyes. 

You won’t cry. You _won’t_. 

“Then stay,” she says finally, her voice quiet and rough—choked with emotion. 

You steel yourself, chance a look over to where she sits looking so impossibly small curled up on the other end of the sofa, tears in her eyes and a plea on her lips. 

You grit your teeth, look up at the ceiling, and do a silent count to 10. 

Your body feels ache-y and wrong and hot all over, naked emotion scalding your insides, tearing you apart piece by piece in a way you haven’t felt since… well, since forever. 

Your voice seems to come from far away as you hear yourself say, “One week.” You feel more than see Natalia’s eyes darting up to you, silently asking if you’re saying what she thinks you’re saying. “I’ll stay for one week. After that, we can… talk about it.”

Natalia’s quiet for a long moment—long enough to have your stomach twisting itself into sickening knots, until—

“Okay.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> **links to wiki pages of things/people mentioned in this chapter just in case you're curious, need a refresher, and/or want to know what to visualize:**
> 
> [madame b](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Madame_B.) | supervisor of the [red room](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Red_Room) program. trained natasha romanoff. appears in the comics and _avengers: age of ultron_.
> 
> [vasily karpov](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Vasily_Karpov) | HYDRA operative. given the task of overseeing the [winter soldier program](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Winter_Soldier_Program). appears in the comics and _captain america: civil war_.
> 
> — —
> 
> thots? yea i don't know what the fuck this is either, dude
> 
> oh also i'm gonna post this on the tumblr i made for specifically writing stuff (mainly reader-insert for now), 'cause i figure it'll make me more organized, or... something. it's @novoaa1writes if you wanna come yell at me there! ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))


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